Waco 3

by J. T. Edson

  ‘He stays in jail,’ Waco told them, looking at the men. ‘One of you go along to the saloon and tell Allenvale that if he is in town in one hour, I’m going to arrest him for intimidating witnesses.’

  With that the deputation had to be content; they doubted if the Ranger would carry out the threat or if he did would not live to see night fall. One of them took the word to the saloon; the rest of them headed for the doctor’s house where a meeting was being held.

  The store was silent and unoccupied when Mrs. Bren came in. She went to the rear door, knocked and entered, stopping to look down at the thing which Hawken was holding. Her face was pale, for she was one of the few who knew the secret of Henry D. Hawken. ‘What are you going to do, Henry?’ she asked.

  ‘Help that Ranger.’

  ‘You know what that will mean?’ Her face showed worry, for she liked and respected the small storekeeper.

  ‘I know. A man can only take so much and I’ve taken all I mean to. I couldn’t look myself in the face again if I let that boy get killed without my helping him. You go to the meeting at the doctor’s house and see if you can shake some guts into the men of the town.’

  The door of the room was thrown open and a frightened looking woman came in. ‘Becky,’ she gasped. ‘It’s Johnny. I saw him going along the street with your Ballard; he told my Annie he was going to help the Ranger fight Allenvale.’ Hawken straightened up, his eyes blazing, and snapped, ‘Get to that meeting and tell them all about that. See if it makes men out of them.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘The Ranger needs help even more now.’

  ~*~

  Waco looked at the clock on the office wall and came to his feet. He checked the loads of the matched guns and then started for the door. Thorne levered himself up from the chair, putting weight on his injured leg carefully.

  ‘Where’s you going?’ Waco asked as the man picked up the shotgun from off his desk.

  ‘With you. This is my town, I reckon I should help maintain the law in it.’

  ‘You can’t do it,’ Waco answered.

  ‘Don’t you trust me, or want me along?’ There was hurt in Thorne’s voice.

  ‘Couldn’t think of any man I’d rather have along with me,’ Waco replied. ‘If you allow your leg will stand it.’

  ‘I’ve got me a Clay Allison crutch,’ Thorne replied, resting his weight on the shotgun and by holding at the muzzle used it as a walking cane. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Why sure,’ Waco agreed. ‘It’s a nice day to get killed.’

  ‘You as scared as I am?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  In the saloon Allenvale swallowed his drink and looked at the clock. ‘The hour is up,’ he said, grinning at the men. ‘Where’s that Ranger?’

  ‘Coming, him and Thorne,’ one of the men said, from the window. ‘Want for me to drop them from here?’

  ‘No, let them come.’

  Judge Holland glanced nervously at Allenvale. Shooting down an unimportant has-been town marshal was one thing; murdering a member of the Arizona Rangers was something entirely different. There would be repercussions which would not be quietened by any amount of bribery or political influence.

  ‘I’m needed at my chambers,’ he said pompously, reaching for his hat.

  ‘Sit down, Holland,’ Allenvale snapped. ‘You’ve done real well out of me in your time. Now you’re running out when there’s some real dirty work to be done. Boys, fan out, let them in, then take them.’

  The gunmen fanned out. Allenvale stood at the bar, watching the batwing doors. All heard the thumping of heels as the two men mounted the sidewalk and came towards the doors.

  Then at the side of the room a window broke and a rifle cracked, the bullet sending splinters from the bar by Allenvale’s side. Every eye turned towards the window but saw nothing, for the recoil of the Ballard rifle had knocked little Johnny Bren over and out of sight.

  The batwings opened and Waco came in, flanked by Thorne, who leaned against the wall and lifted the shotgun across his arm.

  ‘All right, Allenvale,’ Waco’s voice was flat and even. ‘I’m arresting you for intimidating witnesses. Hand your gun over.’

  The miner grinned. ‘You’ll have to take it, won’t he, boys?’

  ‘Then I’ll take it,’ Waco warned. ‘If any man draws I’ll give it you, right through the stomach. You know there isn’t one of your hired killers fast enough to stop me.’

  ‘Mebbe, mebbe not. I’ll take my chance on that. These seven boys can take you. Get set boys; it’s time we showed this mouthy button who runs this town.’

  ‘Yellow as they make ’em!’

  The voice came from the side door, all eyes turned that way. Henry Hawken stood there; yet it was a different Henry Hawken from the man who mildly allowed the gunmen to take goods and never pay for them. He was hard-faced now and at his right side, butt forward, was an ivory butted Colt Dragoon gun, in a well-cared-for holster of a kind they knew too well. A gunfighter’s rig.

  ‘What did you say?’ Allenvale snarled, looking at the small man.

  ‘I said you were yellow. Those guns there are your guts, take them away and you’d be nothing at all. You’re worse than that boy of yours. He killed that girl because she was going to have his child.’

  ‘You’re a liar!’

  Allenvale’s hand went under his coat as he spoke. Hawken’s right hand twisted palm out, lifting the old Dragoon gun from leather in a fast-done cavalry twist draw which brought it into line. The roar of the Dragoon shattered the air. Allenvale reared back on his heels, then went down, his gun falling from his hand.

  ‘Get ’em!’ Magee yelled, clawing at his gun.

  Three guns roared, throwing lead at the gunmen. Waco’s left hand fanned off shots so fast they sounded like the rolling of a drum. Then, as three of the hired gunmen joined Magee on the floor, the saloon windows and doors were crowded with armed men.

  Waco stood, his gun lined and he snapped, ‘Drop them.’

  The remaining gunmen let their guns fall to the floor and the townsmen came crowding in. ‘What do we do with them, Ranger?’ one asked.

  ‘See they pay all they owe you, then let them go,’ Thorne replied. ‘I’m obliged to you for arresting Dinty Allenvale, Ranger. I’ll take care of things now.’

  ‘That’s the way it should be,’ Waco agreed.

  The townsmen were gathering round now, looking down at Allenvale’s body, then they realized who had done the shooting.

  ‘Good old Henry,’ one man yelled. ‘He got Allenvale. Did you see him shoot?’

  The question was to Waco, but Hawken spoke before the Texan could reply. ‘I was just lucky, I’ve never used a gun much. Bought this one from a man who came into the store one day.’

  The townsmen accepted this but Waco knew different. Henry Hawken might have bought the gun from a passing stranger, but he would not have been able to buy a gunbelt which fitted him so well.

  ‘Surely good for you Allenvale wasn’t fast with a gun and couldn’t get it out from under his coat,’ Waco remarked to Hawken. ‘Don’t ever try a fool trick like that again.’

  The crowd looked at the Ranger, then Thorne set them to clearing the bodies out of the saloon. When the crowd was gone Hawken turned to Waco.

  ‘You know, don’t you?’

  ‘I can guess. I’ve been riding with gun strapped to my side since I was thirteen. Got to know the signs. You’ve never worn a glove on your right hand, you’ve kept in practice with that gun and the belt’s well cared for. I reckon I guessed when you didn’t come into the saloon last night. Come on, we’d best go and take young Johnny to his mother.’

  ~*~

  Three days later Waco sat his paint stallion outside the store again. He looked down at Hawken, then ahead to where his partner, Doc Leroy, Judge Carmody and a Federal Marshal were escorting young Allenvale into Tucson for trial.

  ‘Thanks again, Waco,’ Hawken said.

  ‘For what?’<
br />
  ‘Helping me cover up who I am. Drango Dune made a lot of enemies and I don’t want to have to wear a gun again.’ A little girl came from the shop. ‘Uncle Henry, you never finished that story for us.’

  Hawken smiled. Once more he was the cherubic little fat man who mildly served in a store. ‘I never did. Run on in there and I’ll come and finish it.’ He waited until the girl went back, then turned his attention to Waco again. ‘Drango Dune died the day he killed his friend. I kept the gun and belt and practiced with them because I knew that sooner or later we’d have a showdown with Allenvale. But Drango Dune is dead and gone.’

  ‘May he rest in peace,’ Waco answered. ‘I’d like to hear the end of that story myself. I almost wish I could wait. Adios.’

  Hawken watched the young Ranger riding off after the other party and for a moment his face was serious. Then turning he walked towards the door of his store. Drango Dune was dead and gone, Henry Hawken had a fairy story to tell the children.

  Case Four – Set One, Catch One

  The three plump, sun-reddened businessmen bounced around in a far from comfortable manner in the Wells Fargo coach. The Lordsburg, New Mexico – Tucson, Arizona, trail was neither as well laid out nor as comfortable to travel over as the road from New York to Fairview, New Jersey. Nor was the coach they were now in as comfortable as an eastern carriage. They sat there, lurching and jolting as the coach bounced along, their eastern clothes showing them for what they were, dudes not long in this country. They were a well-padded, well dressed bunch and looked like they might be carrying money with them.

  The shotgun guard’s head appeared at the window of the coach, hanging upside down like a bat. ‘Mullen’s Way Station just ahead, gents,’ he said. ‘Change the teams there, be in for about an hour or so, then pull out again and make Tucson just after dark. You can get out and stretch your legs for a piece while we’re there.’

  Alastair Ogden, self-appointed leader of the trio in this venture to the wide open spaces, nodded graciously and the head disappeared again. Ogden did not like the easy familiarity with which the man addressed them all the time. It was not what one expected from a mere employee of a big concern like Wells Fargo. He debated to himself on the advisability of reporting the man, but reached no decision when the coach came to a lurching halt out front of Mullen’s Way Station.

  For all the name this way station was not an over-impressive place. All it consisted of was one long building which provided a bar, dining-room and a couple of bedrooms, a kitchen and living quarters for the owner and his men. There were a couple of smaller places and along with the large corral where the teams of the coaches milled and waited to be used, formed the whole of Mullen’s Way Station.

  Ogden and his two friends climbed down from the coach, working their stiff joints and looking round. A tall, burly man came towards them, wearing a frilly bosomed white shirt, string tie, and brown trousers tucked into riding boots. He held out a hand in greeting, his face beaming with delight at the unexpected pleasure.

  ‘Howdy gents, howdy,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Honest John Mullen’s place. I’m Honest John. Come on in out of the sun.’

  The other three men followed Mullen into the cool and dim shade of the building. They found themselves in the dining-room which was also the bar, a rough wooden erection presided over by a bald, bored-looking man. Apart from two silent, gun hung men who sat at a table idly playing cards, the place was empty.

  ‘Name your poison, gents, the first is on the house,’ Mullen boomed. ‘Allus like to let the customers sample me likker free first, then they knows I’m selling them good stuff.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, thank you,’ Ogden replied, feeling that this bluff, hearty and generous host, while not being an accepted social equal, was worth cultivating. ‘We are delighted to drink with you. My name is Ogden, these are my friends, Bender and Caldon.’

  ‘Most pleasured to make your acquaintance, gents,’ Honest John shook hands with the men. ‘Now here’s the drinks, put ’em down, gents. It’s the first since the last and that’s long enough.’

  Ogden gulped down three fingers of neat whiskey in an attempt to emulate the way Honest John rat holed his rye. This brought on a fit of coughing and with tears in his eyes he protested as Honest John slapped him hard on his back.

  ‘Just a mite hard until you get used to it, Mr. Ogden,’ Mullen warned, then looked at the bardog. ‘Go get these gents a meal fixed.’

  The food, when it came, was rough but good, and the three dudes were very hungry. Their meal was a success and their host kept them laughing with a fund of stories. Back East they were pillars of the church and full of civic virtues, strong in their campaigns against sin in all forms.

  However, away from home they, like many another pious gent, became keenly interested in sin, purely from academic interest, so they could condemn it when they got home. These stories they were now hearing were entertaining, though not the sort one could tell the Reverend Sumpter, back home.

  Feeling quite rips, and with a couple of snorts of Old Scalp Lifter under their belts, Ogden and his men thought Honest John a prince among men, a real diamond in the rough. They accepted his invitation to join him at the bar and were just on the point of ordering drinks when the door opened.

  The man who came into the room looked old. Straggly long grey hair showed from under his beat-up, dirty hat; the face was also dirty, bristle stubbled and with a few coats of dust on it. He wore a check shirt, the sleeves rolled back and the long red sleeve of an undershirt showing below it; his old blue jeans were stuck into boots and at every step he shed dust. Around his waist was a gunbelt with an old Colt 1860 Army revolver in the holster and a bowie knife strapped at the other side.

  ‘Howdy Honest John,’ he greeted in a harsh, crackled old voice. ‘Here I be again. Made my pile out there and come back to show you I can win my bet.’

  With this the old-timer pulled a pouch from his pocket and tipped it on the bar top. Ogden and his friends gave concerted gasps as they looked down at the glittering pile on the counter before them, for they all suspected that here was real, genuine gold dust gathered from some distant stream.

  ‘So you struck lucky and you aim to try that fool bet again,’ Honest John growled, looking down at the dust and nuggets on the bar. ‘Don’t you ever learn sense. I’ve won thirty thousand dollars’ worth of gold off you and my boys have took near the same. You should know you can’t win.’

  ‘I can so win,’ the old-timer bristled aggressively, ‘and I’m going to prove it.’

  With this the old-timer turned and stumped across the room to where the two silent, hard-eyed men sat and started to talk with them. His words did not carry to the other men but from his gestures they could see he was getting excited.

  ‘Danged ole fool,’ Honest John told the dudes. ‘His name’s Wallapai Will, he comes in here every six months or so with a poke of gold and wants to make that fool bet with us.’

  ‘What bet is that?’ Ogden inquired, wondering how a man could lose so much money on any bet.

  ‘That he can cut the ace of hearts with one cut.’

  Three faces turned to each other, three minds working out the odds of a man taking a deck of cards and with one single cut picking a selected card. They failed to come anywhere near the correct odds but he knew it ran into thousands to one. Then their eyes went to that pile of gold dust and nuggets on the bar top and they all started to wonder one thing. How could they get their chance at this bet and make some money.

  ‘Is he poor then, apart from this?’ Bender inquired, clearing his conscience in advance. ‘I mean, can he afford to lose like that?’

  ‘Why sure, he’s got him a claim there that brings in more than enough money for him. I reckon he could lose this and never even think twice about it.’

  Wallapai came stamping back to the bar, bristling in fury. ‘Lookee here, Honest John,’ he said. ‘Your boys there tell me they can’t bet with me.’

  ‘That’s right
,’ Honest John answered, turning to face the old-timer. ‘You never win and we’ve took enough gold off you.’

  ‘Why dednab you for a no good, confounded, interfering coyote,’ Wallapai was almost spluttering in rage and he turned to the three dudes. ‘Be that right and fair, gents. That’s my gold there, nigh on three thousand dollars’ worth. If I wants to bet it why should he interfere.’

  ‘I suppose Mr. Honest John knows what he’s doing,’ Ogden replied. ‘If you never win, I mean.’

  ‘I ain’t won yet, but I surely allows I can this time. He ain’t got no right to stop me making the bet.’

  ‘You don’t make it with me or any of my boys,’ Honest John warned grimly. ‘Not if they want to keep on working for me. I’m sick and tired of taking your gold on a fool bet you haven’t a chance of winning.’

  There’s more where that comes from, plenty more,’ Wallapai turned his bloodshot eyes on the dudes for a moment. ‘You gents don’t work for Honest John. How’d you like—’

  ‘Hold hard, Wallapai, these gents didn’t come in here for gambling and I don’t want my place turned into a gambling joint.’

  ‘Shet up, Honest John,’ the old-timer snapped back. ‘These gents are growed men and look like they might like to take a little gamble.’

  ‘He might win, gents,’ Honest John warned.

  ‘We’ll confer for a moment,’ Ogden replied and with his two friends drew away from Honest John and Wallapai. They talked together for a time, apparently not in agreement over something at first. Then they came back. ‘We feel that we can raise the three thousand to cover the stake. Now, what exactly is the bet?’

  ‘Good!’ Wallapai whooped, taking from his pocket a greasy, thick old deck of cards. ‘Let her rip. I bets I cuts the ace of hearts with just one cut.’

  ‘Just one minute.’ Honest John looked worried, giving the impression that the welfare of his guests was at heart. ‘The gents would like a new deck used.’

  The gents certainly did want a new deck but were not quite sure how to ask for one without giving offence. This old-timer looked wild and dangerous enough to be very awkward if crossed, and he was well armed.